


Burning Mad

by SusanaR



Series: Desperate Hours Alternative Universe G version (DH AU G) [42]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, Fourth Age, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Magic-Users, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/SusanaR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mithiriel’s harvest-festival resolution this year is definitely going to be to never again be taken hostage by madmen, bandits, or other undesirables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Mad

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This story takes place around Fourth Age Year 28, in the forests of Arnor, near a small village called Eryn Lith. 
> 
> Quote: 
> 
> “Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.” - Peter S. Beagle

It was one of those warm, golden-green lit evenings of early spring. Mithiriel would, under normal circumstances, have been enjoying the play of the light through the oak trees and the caress of the cool pine-scented breeze in Arnor’s great northern forest. At the moment, having her hands and feet tied together and being yanked through said forest by a mad-man was rather dimming her pleasure in the beautiful twilight scene. 

There was the sheer discomfort, of course. Mithiriel had delicate skin, and her wrists and ankles were already chafing, let alone the pain of the holes in her clothes and scrapes on her face and limbs from the thorns and branches as she was pulled, will-she nill-she, in the direction of Valar-knew-what. And then there was what her family would have to say when - if - she survived this. That thought was difficult to bear. Imagining the reactions of just her siblings, Eldarion, and Gilwen had her wincing! And worse, Mithiriel had to admit that they would have a point. It had been one thing to be taken hostage by bandits when she was a child and a teenager, that was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone, really. But as a full-grown woman of 25! The shame! 

Eldarion and Theodwyn always said that Mithiriel was too trusting. But Mithiriel’s husband Theli, and her elven and dwarven uncles Legolas and Gimli, had all trusted the sweet but apparently insane young man who had just half an hour ago apologetically held Mithiriel at knife point. He had then proceeded to equally apologetically tie her hand and foot, then drag her through the woods with the air of a child excited to share a wonderful secret with a trusted friend. Perhaps it was time to see if she could talk herself out of this. It was well- agreed that talking was one area in which Mithiriel excelled. 

"Calben," Mithiriel ventured delicately, "Why don't you untie me, and then I'll be able to walk faster to see your grand surprise?" 

Calben didn't stop tugging her along through the clinging leaves, but he did look back at her. His Numenorean gray eyes eloquent with regret at the prospect of disappointing her, he said, "I mustn't, Miri. Talathion said that you wouldn't understand, that I couldn't tell you. But I just know that you'll understand if only you can see." 

Talathion. Well, that explained a little. Even her husband Theli, who was more or less willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, had noticed that something about Talathion rang untrue. Mithiriel had given Theli her word that she wouldn't put herself into a situation where she was alone with Talathion during their stay in the village of Eryn Lith. The plan had been that Mithiriel would stay safe in the village under the protection of Calben's father Malthenor, whilst Theli, Legolas, Gimli, Pippin Took, and Fredegar Bolger went with the warriors of the local Arnorian militia to search for whoever –or whatever – was kidnapping men and women of Easterling descent, and potentially also responsible for the mysterious disappearance of several adventuresome young hobbits. 

Obviously, something had gone wrong with that plan. Mithiriel hoped that she wasn’t about to find out where the missing Arnorians and hobbits had ended up. Given that Talathion was apparently involved, that was likely a vain hope.

Another yank from the deceptively strong Calben, and they were across a stream and into a large clearing. Sure enough, tied to stakes around a huge pile of wood were some thirty human villagers, and four adolescent hobbits. Mithiriel tried to spit a stray leaf out of her mouth in the most lady-like way possible while at the same time thoroughly surveying her surroundings. A dozen men of Arnor carrying axes and bows patrolled around the edge of the clearing. Mithiriel recognized several of them from the village. Most seemed content to ignore Calben and his hostage/companion, but one or two of the cleverer ones looked uneasy. 

Only half of the imprisoned villagers seemed aware of their situation. The others, likely those who had gone missing first, appeared gaunt and near delirious. The hobbits were all bright-eyed and alert, eyeing Mithiriel with hope and interest. With a jolt of fear, she recognized Faramir Took, Pippin’s only son. He nodded to her, and then jerked his head towards his fellows. The two brown-haired hobbit lads were young Merry and young Pippin, sons of Samwise and Rosie, but for the life of her, Mithiriel couldn’t tell the two apart. She didn’t recognize the last hobbit, but thought that he must be Fredegar Bolger’s missing cousin by a process of elimination. 

Mithiriel hoped that she’d be able to rescue them, and herself, and the missing villagers. She just didn’t have the faintest idea how, yet. Normally Mithiriel would already be extending her other senses to feel the fabric of this place and time, and thinking about how it might be stretched and modified to be otherwise. In other words, she would be thinking of how best to use her human magic, which in extremity she could use to effect great things, but which most often left her exhausted and useless immediately afterwards. 

It was a tricky gift to use under any circumstances, but now she dared not even begin to try until she had no choice left, for Calben was one of only three other humans Mithiriel had ever met who shared that gift. Gwilin, the blind net-weaver of the Falas, saw the magic as Mithiriel did, as brilliant threads in a great tapestry of life. Gwilin’s nets never failed to catch fish, yet never ensnared a dolphin or a man, no matter how poorly they were thrown. Merewyn, a Dale minstrel, saw shining notes in a grand symphony, and sang to change the tune of the song, her singing allowing her to make similar changes to Mithiriel’s manipulation of threads in the tapestry. Calben, a blacksmith, saw the world as shining molten metal, and shaped it as he did the plows, knives, arrowheads, and axles he made in his smithy. 

Calben would ‘hear’ if Mithiriel began pulling threads. He clearly didn’t want to hurt her. But he was also clearly unstable, if he thought this a wonderful surprise! 

“You see, Mithiriel?” Calben asked excitedly, his pale gray eyes filled with trust and confidence, “Do you see? They don’t belong here. The Valar have cursed us with dry spring upon dry spring because we’ve let ourselves dilute our blood with the Enemy’s. If we burn them, that will be like a great prayer to the Valar, and then the rain will come.” 

“Calben,” Mithiriel began gently, before trailing off, unsure how to best make her appeal. It was true that the droughts of the past several years seemed unnatural. She knew that her kin and Theli’s were concerned by them. In fact, the original reason for her presence and Theli’s in Eryn Lith had been to bring additional supplies from Annuminas, and to survey the villages of Arnor to make sure that the villagers’ health wasn’t suffering along with their crops. 

“Calben,” Mithiriel tried again, “The Easterlings and the Southrons are just as much children of Eru as we are. I’m sure that the Valar don’t want them to be harmed, let alone burnt to death.” 

“Mithiriel, you don’t understand,” Calben said, still patient and earnest and kind. Mithiriel was almost afraid to find out what he would say next, but then one of the even more objectionable men prowling the edge of the clearing interrupted Calben before the smith had the chance to continue. 

“Stupid soft Gondorian Lady,” the poorly washed woodsman sneered at Mithiriel, “the Easterlings have raided and plundered our villages since before Annuminas fell the first time! Everyone knows this!” 

“But these men and women are your neighbors,” Mithiriel disagreed, careful to keep her tone even and calm, “their parents or grandparents may have been of Rhun, but they chose to live in Arnor and abide by its customs and laws.” 

The woodsman was still sneering, and Calben was still shaking his head with gentle regret, but at least one of the bowmen patrolling the clearing was listening. Encouraged, Mithiriel added, “The wars are over, and some of the Easterlings are no longer our enemies. I know a number of Easterlings who are good, decent folk.” Mithiriel didn’t bother to explain that one of them was her brother-by-law. This didn’t seem like the right crowd for that fact to go over well. 

She’d pressed her advantage too far. The bowman lost interest, and the woodsman stepped forward to belt her across the face with a closed fist. Calben pulled her back quickly enough that only his knuckles grazed her cheek, but it still hurt. She blinked away tears of shock and pain, listening with only half her attention as Calben scolded the woodsman. 

“No true man hits a woman, Rondion! Besides, Mithiriel sees Arda as I do. I’m sure that she will understand that this is for the greater good as soon as we explain it to her!” Calben said firmly. 

“Calben,” Mithiriel sallied again, “Some of these people aren’t even Men. Those four are hobbits. Hobbit children.” 

Calben turned to stare at the four hobbits. Frodo, young Merry, young Pippin, and the Bolger lad all did their best to look scared and harmless. They succeeded brilliantly, in Mithiriel’s opinion. Even Calben looked thoughtful, at last. 

“Maybe they are hobbits,” he mused, “They don’t look like Easterlings, and the molding for the prayer doesn’t need any children.” 

Calben considered that a little longer, then nodded his head firmly. “Forodhim,” he ordered the bowman, “Take these four small ones off of the posts, and tie them up over here by me. After the others are burnt and the prayer is made, we can take them back to the village with Mithiriel.” 

Mithiriel honestly didn’t think that she’d be going back to the village in any future where Calben’s plan succeeded, but tied up on the ground by the edge of the clearing was better than tied to a post about to be burnt. Young Faramir, Merry, Pippin, and what’s-his-name evidently thought so too. Mithiriel saw out of the corner of her eye that young Merry – or young Pippin? – she really couldn’t tell the two apart – had gotten an arrowhead away from the hapless Forodhim. The hobbit lad couldn’t do anything with it himself because his hands were tied, but he could hand it off to one of the others to use to cut their bonds. 

Hopefully at least the young hobbits could get away, and stay away long enough for Theli and the others to save them. Mithiriel had managed to get a message through to her husband, so he would be on his way. Speaking mind-to-mind was elven magic, not human, and it seemed to be undetectable to Calben. Unfortunately, Mithiriel wasn’t much good at it. Either her father Faramir or her brother Elboron could have done a much better job, maintaining the link long enough to convey nearly the whole situation, rather than Mithiriel’s frantic message of, *Calben, to the northeast, help!* 

Even if Mithiriel had been as skilled at the mind speech as an ancient elf like Glorfindel or a powerful one like Orophin or Daernana Arwen, it might not have helped that much. Speaking mind-to-mind was painful for Theli, thanks to his grandfather having been a clumsy and unkind fist teacher. And Legolas was also not particularly good at it yet, although Mithiriel had been near shouting when she sent her message, so he might have heard it too. As it was, Mithiriel had only just received Theli’s determined and reassuring message that he was coming when she broke the connection in order to conserve her energy to find a way out of the situation on her own. 

So far, all Mithiriel could think to do was play for time. Already Calben had spent twenty minutes making the obedient Forodhrim and the unpleasant Rondion untie two of the villagers and move them to the posts that little Faramir and the young Bolger had been tied to. 

“Now, Mithiriel,” Calben said, a gentle, exalted expression on his handsome face, “When the fire purifies and releases their spirits, the power of that will . . . .” 

“Calben, you idiot!” yelled the newly-arrived Talathion,”What are you doing with Elessar Telcontar’s granddaughter as a hostage!” 

“She’s not a hostage, she’s our guest!” Calben protested. Mithiriel silently cursed her luck. Calben was touched enough that he might well have spent the rest of the evening trying to explain this incipient atrocity to her, or even possibly let her go free afterward. Talathion was an entirely different kind of unstable.

“She’ll betray us, you simpleton!” 

“She’s like me, she’ll understand!” Showing doubt for the first time, Calben added, “Or at least she’ll understand, after it’s done. The power will be there for the taking. She’ll understand that it wouldn’t make sense to let it go to waste.” 

Mithiriel was fairly sure that she’d never understand any of this. She was even more certain that she’d fight to save these people, or at least get them justice, with every breath in her body. Calben might not realize that, but Talathion at least had a pretty good grip on what Mithiriel was thinking. Staring into his cruel dark eyes, the shade and shape of which marked him as having some Easterling blood of his own, Mithiriel knew that she wouldn’t survive to leave this clearing. Talathion would make sure of that. She said a silent prayer to Eru and any Valar who might be listening for Theli and anyone else who might help to hurry, then pretended to feel faint and dizzy, leaning heavily against Calben’s side. With any luck, he and the sharp-eyed Talathion wouldn’t notice the hobbits inching closer and closer to the trees. 

“Mithiriel? Are you well?” Calben inquired kindly. 

Talathion rolled his eyes, but he seemed to have some need to keep Calben in good humor with him, for he said nothing. 

“I just . . . I feel a little weak, Calben.” Mithirel whispered, “I’m . . . I’m trying so hard to understand, it’s giving me a headache. Maybe if I could have a little water?” 

“Of course, Mithiriel!” Calben said, brightening. “Forodhirm, fetch Mithiriel some water.” 

Another few minutes were spent with Forodhrim protesting that he had only his flask, which wasn’t good enough for a fine Gondorian lady of royal blood to drink from. Talathion settled the argument by saying that it might be Mithiriel’s last drink, which made Calben scold him again. While they bickered, a prayer Mithiriel hadn’t thought to make was answered. Clouds spread across the darkening sky above, and the first drops of rain began to fall. 

Talathion, on the other hand, was not pleased to see the rain. 

“Forget that, you fools! Light the fire before the rain makes the wood too damp!” 

“Don’t worry,” soothed Calben, his magic gathering around him even as he spoke, “I can make the wood burn, no matter how wet it gets.” 

Mithiriel gave up on waiting. Calben was as distracted as he was going to get. She looked sideways and brought the tapestry into focus. Then she screamed, for while Calben saw the tapestry differently than she did, she could still see in her vision of it what he was planning. He was right. Not that burning people could ever be a good thing, but that it would release a tremendous amount of power. Burning away the threads in the tapestry that represented the captured villagers’ lives, hopes, and dreams would horribly mar the tapestry . . . but it would also create power, and potential. Mithiriel couldn’t use that power, not without becoming hopelessly corrupted by it, nor would she use it even if she could. But Calben would dare use it, to bring the rain that he truly believed the Arnorian villagers with Easterling blood had somehow driven away. He might succeed in bringing rain; he might accidentally bring a typhoon; he might only make it rain fire. Mithiriel couldn’t tell for sure, and she doubted Calben’s ability to handle the power that he meant to summon. 

And she meant to stop him. She spared a desperate hope that Forodhrim, Rondion, and especially Talathion hadn’t understood what Calben meant when he said that Mithiriel was like him, for cutting her throat, shooting an arrow at her heart, or even knocking her hard over the head with a rock would stop her from being able to stop the fire. At least for the moment, her luck held, and no one threatened her. 

Calben coaxed the first wisps of fire from the driest portion of the piled timber and kindling. Mithiriel searched for rain-wet wood elsewhere in the world, and when she found it in Eryn Vorn, she swapped the threads representing that wood with the threads representing the mostly dry wood in this blasted clearing. 

It took a few minutes, but Calben soon realized what she was doing. He shouted a protest, then yanked her against his chest, placing a hard, muscular forearm across her throat, cutting off her air. Mithiriel, desperate, pulled on the threads representing the rain storm which had just begun above them, using everything she remembered about the theories for how clouds made rain and everything she could see in the tapestry to make larger and larger drops fall before she lost consciousness. She wept and gasped, something inside her mind tearing as she pushed herself past her limits. 

Mithiriel was unaware of anything but her struggle with Calben, but even that distracted, she heard her older brother’s voice.

“Mithiriel!” Elboron shouted, incongruously in front of her even though he should have been hundreds of miles southeast in Annuminas. Thousands of hours spent in one another’s company made it so that when Elboron’s cornflower blue eyes flickered down, Mithiriel threw herself violently towards the ground. The arrow that Elboron had nocked and aimed at Calben’s left eye flew true, and suddenly there was no power trying to coax flame from wood. Gratefully, Mithiriel gave up her struggle to remain conscious, even as Elboron yelled for her to get out of the way. 

‘Sorry, brother-mine,’ Mithiriel thought to herself, ‘You’ll just have to manage on your own.’ Despite her exhaustion and hurts, complete oblivion remained elusive. Calben was dead, but Talathion and Rondion and some of the others seemed to be putting up a fierce fight, complicated by Elboron and whoever else was there having to avoid hurting the prisoners. Mithiriel wasn’t truly awake, but she was aware enough to murmur an objection as small but strong arms starting dragging her over the ground. Mithiriel felt that she’d been dragged around quite enough today, thank you very much! Besides, the ground was becoming muddy from the rain, and Mithiriel did not care for mud. 

“Shh, Miriel, please!” begged the voice of her father’s namesake, young Faramir Took, at the same time that young Pippin – or was it young Merry? – yelled for Faramir to watch out for Donkey-Face. 

“You wretched little rats!” snarled Rondion the woodsman. Mithiriel wanted to tell him not to pick on children, and also not to yell because she had such a headache. She’d just opened her eyes to try and find Rondion in order to scold him when she saw her brother’s guard Borlas cut off Rondion’s head with his great sword. Mithiriel decided that she’d had enough of this day, and let unconsciousness claim her entirely. 

She awoke in the common room of the village’s inn, cradled in Gimli’s arms while her husband applied a cold cloth to her aching throat. Mithiriel could taste willowbark and honey, which explained why she was in much less pain than she had been earlier. Of greater interest was her brother’s voice. 

“I’m staying until we know that Mithiriel is recovering,” Elboron said in a tone which would brook no disagreement, a tone near identical to that of their father Faramir in one of his polite-but-implacable moods, “Then I have to go back,” Elboron continued, now sounding pained and a little abashed. 

Mithiriel struggled to sit up, intending to assure her brother that she was fine and ask him the first of her many questions about his fortuitous appearance. 

Her husband smiled at her, moving a strong arm to assist her up, but warning, “You can listen, Flashfire, but don’t talk above a whisper. I know that will be hard for you,” Theli added with a teasing smile, “But Calben bruised your throat, and you need to let it rest.” 

Mithiriel nodded to say that she understood, then leaned forward to press her lips against his. The kiss turned from tender to passionate, Mithiriel forgetting for a moment that she meant to talk to her brother. 

Gimli’s chuckle and Elboron’s objecting whine of “Miri!” reminded her of her surroundings. ‘Later,’ Mithiriel promised her husband silently, staring into his deep blue eyes and needing no magic whatsoever to know that he understood. 

With Theli’s help, Mithiriel rose to her feet and embraced her brother fiercely. 

“Thank you.” She whispered near silently against his shoulder. 

“Shh, muinthel-dithen,” he soothed, “There is no need for thanks. You did well – if not for you, there would have been injuries aplenty, even if the rain had spared those poor folk their lives.” 

“The villagers are being cared for by the army healer,” Theli explained, not needing Mithiriel to actually ask the question, “and our fine hobbit lads are over there by the hearth with Pippin-the-elder.” 

That worthy raised his tankard of ale in a one-armed salute to Mithiriel, carefully not disturbing young Faramir, soundly asleep against his father’s side. Mithiriel nodded back to Pippin-the-elder, remembering in that moment quite clearly that he had once saved her father Faramir from burning to death. 

“You have a brave son, Sir Peregrine,” she said.

“That I do,” agreed Pippin-the-elder, at the same time that Theli scolded, “Flashfire, if you can’t rest your throat, I do have a blue-root sedative with your name on it.” 

Mithiriel made a disgusted face and gave her husband a chastened nod. Mithiriel, like her father and her grandfather, was allergic to the more common poppy-based sedatives and painkillers. Blue-root was less effective, but it would make her sleep and wake up feeling well and rested. She just wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet. She had so many questions! 

Elboron’s arm still lay protectively over Mithiriel’s shoulder, keeping her close to him as he asked a man in a Gondorian sergeant’s uniform, “Len, can you coordinate with the village elders and Prince Legolas, Lord Gimli, and my brother-by-law to continue the clean-up here? I really do need to make sure that our commanding officer got out of that closet safely." 

Equally as disbelieving as the stunned-speechless Mithiriel, Legolas asked, “You locked your commanding officer in a closet, Elboron?" 

Elboron didn’t seem to know what to say. His bodyguard Borlas grinned and cheerfully explained, “His Grace has just ruined a lifetime's work of establishing himself as the predictable, rational one in the royal family." 

Not unexpectedly, that set the cat among the pigeons. Mithiriel, unaccustomedly for her, took the time to process that information before saying anything. Clearly Elboron must have had some sort of premonition, and asked for permission to travel for days on a hunch. His Captain, who normally respected Elboron for being a hard-working, respectful young officer who never traded on his family-name, must have denied Elboron’s request. At least once. And Elboron, well . . . clearly Elboron had felt it necessary to heed his premonition, no matter the cost to himself. 

“El, there must have been a better way!” Legolas scolded. 

“Let him speak, brother!” Gimli objected, “We dinna know the whole story.” 

Theli gave Legolas a chiding look, “Maybe Elboron just didn’t have a loyal healer to drug his critical superior officer, Legolas.” 

None of this seemed to be making Elboron feel any better. Still beside her brother, Mithiriel brought a gentle hand up to his cheek. 

“Ada and Nana will be so proud of you,” she whispered, putting into her eyes everything she couldn’t say just then. How relieved she’d been that he’d appeared to rescue her, how she wasn’t sure she could have saved the villagers without him, and how it would have broken her heart and her mind to fail. 

Elboron embraced her again. “I don’t regret it,” he whispered back, before saying more loudly, “Daerada is going to kill me, though.” 

"Don't worry, El. I'll remind Aragorn of a half dozen reasons why it would be hypocritical of him to go too hard on you," promised Legolas, having performed an abrupt about-face on his earlier position. 

Mithiriel smiled, and reached over to tug on Legolas’ sleeve. When she had his attention, she smiled, purposely showing her dimples. “Story?” she requested in a whisper. 

Legolas laughed, and agreed. Once it was decided that Elboron, Borlas, and the three soldiers who had accompanied them would bide in the village at least through the night, Legolas began telling them tales of their grandfather Aragorn as a brave but reckless young man. Mithiriel fell asleep near the beginning of the first story, but she did so with perfect confidence that her brother or her husband would fill her in later. 

Mithiriel awoke in the middle of the night, curled up beside her husband in a bedroll under the stars. The fear of the day hit her then, when she no longer had a hero brother to be thankful for or an interested audience to be brave for. 

“Calben was so gifted, so kind, so good,” she croaked through her tears, “How could he be crazy? How could he do such a thing?” 

“Shh, shh, my heart, my fire,” Theli said, his deep voice vibrating in his chest beside her in a counterpoint to his reassuring tone, “Having a gift doesn’t make someone turn evil. But it also doesn’t save someone from going mad or doing terrible things. It’s a matter of chance, but also choice. I’ve known madmen who held themselves in check, and men with cruel impulses who managed to curb them. And now I’ve known a kind madman who nearly killed half a village in a truly horrific way. The world takes all types, Flashfire.” 

They spoke a little more, him lending centuries of experience to help her put the horror of the evening’s events into some kind of perspective. 

Having achieved a measure of peace, Mithiriel promised, "Don't worry, Greensword. I'll be well enough."

"You'd by-all better be, Flashfire," he said with a smile that made her gasp. Then she leaned forward to kiss him, putting all thoughts of fires and mad sorcerors aside. In the morning Mithiriel would have a village to reassure and potentially Elboron’s commanding officer to charm, but for now, she had Theli, and he had her, and both knew that they were truly blessed.


End file.
